


Odal

by Ros192



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is a Prat, BAMF Merlin, Druids, F/F, F/M, Family History, M/M, Magic-Users, Multi, emrys - Freeform, everything is described by nouns, honour is very important
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ros192/pseuds/Ros192
Summary: It was known that every Crown Prince of Camelot would face a trial to prove him worthy before his coronation. The druids had arrived on coronation day since the dawn of Camelot. Arthur Pendragon had dedicated his life for the trial. A druid named Emrys sought after the Once and Future King. Pendragon blood was not enough for Arthur to lift Excalibur.





	

Part One

Trial

 

The great castle of Camelot glimmered in the dwindling sunlight. The white stone walls shone brilliantly, dazzling the citizens in the village below and casting the open halls in a blinding golden colour. The pillars' shadows hid the guards dressed in red and gold standing in front of them. Their faces remained unchanging to the sight behind them.

The quiet halls was disturbed by the sound of rushing feet and heavy breathing. A boy, appearing no more than five years old, raced down the corridors. His blonde bright hair reminded everyone of the late Queen. The memory of her was rumoured so painful that the King could not look his own son in the eye. The boy ran, laughing and without care, strands of hair glistened in the dipping sun, perhaps it truly was made of gold or even the sun. His eyes were the colour of the mid-day sky, a blue that was so light, it would appear that birds could be flying in them. Or that could just be the emotions he was feeling passing by. With each quick breath that passed his pink lips, another came in, only to leave shortly after entering.

“Morgana!” The boy who was named Arthur Pendragon. Meaning courage and was deemed a proper name for a King. He was too young to understand that Morgana Le Fay was not his sister in true. She was the bastard daughter of the King. She would never hold power in Camelot. Nonetheless it was apparent to every servant and guard that the two acted like siblings who shared the same blood.

Together the two roamed the vast halls of the castle. Arthur stopped as he pushed into one of the empty rooms. The boy gasped softly, Morgana stopping right by his side. A massive paper parchment within a large golden frame that took up a quarter of the length of the wall; however, it hung from the ceiling and grazed the floor. Beneath the colourful paints and detailed lines and curves are parallel thin lines stitching that create the paper. With so many stitches and layers, it'll be difficult to tear. Despite the multiple stitches and many layers the edges remain un-frayed under the heavy, twisting frame.

The setting of the grand artwork was within some grand place in the castle. There was an open window showing a clear blue sky, deep red drapes hung on both sides of the painting. A delicate blue vase, full of various types of flowers, stood on an end table of oak wood near the window and before the drapes.

The children looked in awe up at the tapestry. Every boy and girl in Camelot and beyond its boarders knew of the story. Like every child, Arthur adored the story that the artwork displayed.

Uther Pendragon the Last Dragonslayer, stood proudly in the middle. Decorated in Camelot’s colours and the wearing the crest of the house. His hair dark like Morgana’s and the same blue eyes as Arthur. Next to his father was a man, dressed in dark fabrics and a hood was covering his face. Even as a child of five, Arthur knew that it was a druid. He was on his knees presenting Uther with a golden crown. 

The story of the crowing of the King Uther was like a fairytale, but no one could deny the truth in it. The druids had always been apart of the history of men. Since the dawn of Camelot druids has come to the castle to meet every King who would sit on the throne. They were the essence of the Old Religion and always presented Crown Prince with a trial. If they conquer and won the trial, they would receive the protection of the druids, allowing the kingdom to prosper. Only one Crown Prince had failed the trial. Prince Alden of House Southron. Before the fall of House Southron many had doubted the power of the druids. Regarding the trial as only a theatric tradition of the Old Religion. When Alden Southron failed to retrieve the cup of life from Isle of the Blessed, the druids left Camelot. He was crowned King. Only one moon after the coronation, a plague roamed the lands. The Black Plague killed every lady, lord and anyone who’d sworn loyalty to the house first. Then it spread to Caerleon and Essetir. Essetir broke the peace treaty with Camelot and declared war against Southron. Every peasant said it was because the King failed the trial. The aristocrats in Camelot were prepared to overthrow the King. The one that they called the Black King died in the plague only weeks after his coronation. Alden the Black brought a deep shame to his House. So deep that the Southron bloodline ended with him. After his death every Crown Prince of Camelot’s biggest task was the coronation trial. 

Arthur knew that he, himself had to face the druids and their trial. The peasants adored the druids, often after their arrival the crops seemed to grow faster and many of the sick became healthy again. The noble despised anyone who had more power than them. King Uther’s trial was often spoke about. His task was to catch one a dragon and tame it. Arthur secretly hoped that he would not be faced with a dragon. 

“Father would be proud if I too, slayed a dragon.” Arthur stated to Morgana. She was two years older than him and so felt entitled to scoff at the boy.

“Don’t be stupid. There are no more dragons. Father is called the _Last Dragonslayer_.” She said with crossed arms. Not even the most disciplined Keeper of Knowledge could purge Arthur’s childish grimace. Morgana shook her head and sighed.

“Not very kingly to act like a peasant.”

“I’m not!” Arthur blushed red.

“A prince never screams at a lady.” Arthur looked down at his feet and then up again, a defiant look in his eyes.

“I’m going to the training grounds. You can’t come with, because you’re a _lady_.” He added another vulgar grimace for effect. Morgana squinted her eyes and huffed. Arthur turned his heel and made his way to the tall wooden doors.

“Hope you can pick up the sword this time!” She yelled after him.

* * *

 

Arthur laid down his offering consisting of bread and red wine by altar. Bowing down so his forehead touched the white stone pillar. His mother had been of house de Bois and consequently a follower of the Old Religion. When she married his father, she’d abandoned the Old for the New. Arthur like everyone before in House Pendragon had sworn their faith to the New Religion. The Old Religion stemmed from the faith of the druids. Alliance to nature and valued peace the highest of all. The New Religion only had one God and he was mightier than any druid. Those were the words of the Keeper of Knowledge who was Arthur’s teacher of writing, history and numbers. Arthur was anointed in the faith, but didn’t pray regularly like some lords. Worship and prayers for better times was something that was for the peasants who thought words were better than action. But today was Arthur’s two and tenth name day.He was deemed old enough for his first Challenge with the sword. He hoped that his father would be present, almost every knight and peasant was supposed to witness his victory. Or at least he hoped that he would bring pride to his name. He whispered the Pendragon words, _With God and victorious arms._ Arthur rose from his knees and breathed out slowly. 

Arthur, dressed as a warrior in training, with tears of pain in his sky blue eyes ran down the long corridor. He kept his head down; if he walked fast enough and didn't make eye contact, no one would see him. He’d challenged the son of Lord Mathis of the noble House Dudrand. Arthur regarded Leon Dudrand as a good friend, they often learned the ways of the blade together. Leon always made comments of his strength and complimented his talent with the sword. Yet Leon had bested him, while his own father, the King had looked on. The shame burned deep from his chest and he’d ridden himself of the blade that had cursed him with failure. 

“Your Royal Highness!” Arthur didn’t stop when he heard Leon’s voice echo in the hallway. He refused to look him in the eye when Leon had caught up. Arthur had lost but he would not run.

“I humbly apologise, I should not have struck you so hard.” Arthur bit down a laugh. It had been his own mistake to Challenge a boy of four and ten, but he wanted to prove that he could best anyone older than him.

“You fought nobly and with honour.” Leon tried to compliment. Arthur sighed and stopped, meeting Leon’s eyes. They displayed great sympathy and sorrow for brining shame to his friend.

“How can I win the trial if I can’t even best you?” Arthur trusted Leon with his concerns. Leon smiled.

“Your Highness, it’s several years until the arrival of the druids. You have years to train.” Arthur shook his head. 

“What if they want me to best a beast or a griffin?” 

“Then you have to train with more vigour, Sire.” Leon supplied. Arthur laughed and tried to forget his humiliating defeat.

“Maybe they want me to best one of them.” Leon frowned.

“The druids are peaceful, they would never fight anyone.” While the druids was rumoured to be peaceful, Leon sounded unsure. 

“I’ve never seen magic, how could ever win over something I’ve never witnessed to?” The question was to complex for a mere boy to answer, so Leon opted for silence. Arthur sighed deeply, the thought of his coronation brought both joy and horror to his mind. 

“The King did kill a dragon, no man had seen one of those in years before your father killed one.” Leon advised a few moments later, they had started to go down the hallway, making their way to the training grounds again.

“Father refuses to tell me how he killed it.” Arthur said with a bitter voice. The King was distant to both of his children. Arthur knew that it was expected when it came to Morgana, she was a bastard, but Arthur was trueborn.

“If you have to fight a druid, he will surely tell you.” Arthur nodded and they walked together in silence. It was true that Arthur had never seen magic, only heard of it. No one in Camelot had ever seen magic. The Queen had died in childbirth and only a few weeks after that, magic had been banned in Camelot. The Great Purge was what the Keeper of Knowledge called it. Despite the druids being a consequential part of Camelot’s prosperity, the King had killed many people who possessed magic, claiming that they used Black Magic.When the Purge had started many had feared that the druids would cast another Plague on Camelot, but when it did not happen, the King continued with the executions. Arthur thought that belief in magic was for girls and those who believed fairytales were true. Still he couldn’t deny the existence of it as he wanted to. The royal library boasting scripts of every trial a Crown Prince of Camelot had endured. Only a simpleton could ignore that the scrips were describing magic.

Magic was forbidden in Camelot, no one knew if there even was those who practiced it still. The druids seemingly being the only ones who still had magic. Arthur wondered here they were and how they knew when the coronation was. If only one could fool a druid. Knowledge of druids were sparse. They only appeared at the day of the coronation, then disappearing when the trial was over. Some who managed to attain a audience with the King claimed to have seen druids in the forests. The King dismissed it as lies. The druids fascinated Arthur. They had magic, surely then they could wish for anything and make it true. If Arthur knew magic, and if it wasn’t forbidden, he would have used it to best Leon.

* * *

 

Percival breathed in slowly as he rushed forward. Arthur smiled and quickly stepped to the side, he dipped and weaved right as Percival was about to reach him and he slashed downwards with the sword. Percival parried with one of his gauntlets and the blade clashed against the amor strapped to Percival’s arms with a shriek that sent sparks flying into the air. Arthur was quick and uppercut slashed at the hand of the knight, attempting to catch Percival from stem all the way to stern. He sidestepped to the right just enough and the blade passed his brow. His breath was already wavering. Percival was older than Arthur and had already been anointed a knight of Camelot. He was one and twenty, five years older than Arthur, yet Arthur was proving his skill every day.

Quickly, before Arthur could respond with a follow-up, Percival swiftly punched him in the stomach, trying to knock the wind out of him, the repose was not even a small cough. Arthur just stopped for a moment, as if he was confused why Percival even tried to do that. The fight had taken Arthur and Percival dangerously close to the edge of the training grounds. Percival had his back almost to the rows of spears, despite his counter offensive. They were arms reach from the group, who was talking and cheering, it was miles away. Arthur watched Percival closely, he was aware that he was still open for more attacks. The quick blow had opened him up for another attack and Percival obliged him, putting a simple sidekick into the Prince’s stomach, doubling him over. Arthur coughed and spat into the mud. Arthur yanked himself up and brought up his blade again. Quickly, Percival followed up with a quick rising uppercut. He drew a slash to Arthur’s side, forcing them to change places, him being back to the spears. Arthur didn’t have to turn around to know that if he stepped two paces backwards, he would be impaled. 

“Need a pause, Prince?” Arthur rolled his eyes. He silently admired Percival’s courage to disrespect the Prince. He made a move towards Arthur’s middle, but he was quicker. Taking the opening and using the environment to his advantage, grabbing a spear with his left hand he flung it into Percival’s neck. Making the knight gasp for air and falling on the ground. Percival growled and rolled to the right, pushing Arthur to the ground. Like a cat he landed gracefully. He picked up his sword again, Percival doing the same. 

Arthur stepped first, jabbing his sword at Percival’s head, which he easily deflected. Arthur smiled an ugly smile and pushed his sword to the ground into Percival’s combat boot, in one toe, just a flesh wound. 

He cried out in pain. Arthur jerked to the right and swung around him. Then, when he was directly behind his opponent, ripping his sword out and tripped Percival by hooking his foot over Percival’s leg simultaneously. Percival was pulled off his feet violently and was thrown across the mud. He skidded and tumbled along the ground, uncontrolled. Arthur took in deep breaths of air and started to walk up to Percival, who was still trying to get a grasp of his blade.

The entire yard was silent and it was as if time itself was holding its breath as Arthur raised his sword over his head.Every person watching the fight was so enthralled, watching for the next move in the epic fight. Percival rolled to the right in a desperate dodge. Just in time. Arthur’s sword swung down, right over his head. He wonders for a second what would have happened if Percival hadn’t moved in the last minute. Arthur let Percival pick up his sword and stand up again. Percival took a stance and there swords clashed together, making the air crack around them. Arthur threw his arm to the left, forcing Percival to bow down his sword. He slashed down on Percival just as he’d brought up his sword again. Arthur moved his feet quickly, bringing down his sword, alternating between left and right without pattern. Making Percival desperate as he tries to deflect. Percival was moving closer and closer to the audience, his eyes looking behind him every half second. Finally, Percival opened up enough for Arthur getting a solid strike in Percival’s armour clad shoulder. 

Percival winced and fell down on one knee, Arthur kicked at Percival’s right hand, sending the sword flying over the mud. Arthur swung his blade, stopping right by Percival’s neck. Both men breathing hard, Percival raised his hands his defeat.

“I yield.” Arthur smiled and put his sword into its sheath. Arthur helped the knight up to his feet again, clapping Percival on the shoulder.

“You have improved, Your Highness.” Arthur gave Leon a nod at his words. Arthur could boast being one of the best swordsmen in Camelot, after years of hard practice and studying under Sir Marhaus. The Kingsguard, the most honourable knight in Camelot.

“Of course I have, I just bested a knight of Camelot.” Arthur chuckled. Percival rolled his eyes and shed his armour. Arthur sighed and let a servant take off his chainmail and sword.

“If only you could win a lady’s hand.” One of the attendees teased.

“Or slay a dragon.” A man added, who clearly thought that Arthur was friendly with everyone. Arthur snapped his head to the two who’d spoken.

“Watch your tongues. You’re speaking to the Crown Prince.” On the sixteenth year of his life Arthur was tall and his body displayed proof of hard labour and pain. Even in bulky armour he knew that he was not to be meddled with. The two boys stepped back and started to apologise profusely.

“A man who has to state his power, has no power at all.” Morgana, his bastard sister stated sullenly. Arthur turned to face her with a snarl on his face.

“What do you know of power?” He asked. Morgana raised one eyebrow. Morgana was Arthur’s half-sister, and he loved her dearly. But Morgana’s mother had not been the Queen. She was not a Princess, therefor, Arthur saw no reason to treat her as such.

“More than you, little brother.” Arthur bristled, she wouldn’t dare to call him that in front of father. Arthur scoffed and shook his head.

“Don’t you have needlework or gossiping to do, or whatever you ladies do?” Morgana raised both eyebrows in surprise. Despite her blood, she was allowed to dress in fine fabrics like a lady. Most people treated her like she was, even though it simply wasn’t so.

“Oh, I’m a lady now? Lady Pendragon does sound quite fetching.” She teased with an easy smile. She was used to Arthur’s lack of humour and brute behaviour. Arthur scoffs again, annoyed that Morgana had stolen the moment of victory away from him.

“You will never be a true Pendragon.” Morgana looked at him like he’d struck her. Arthur didn’t see why she would be offended. It was true.

“I hope that you have to best a druid so you have to face your own arrogance.” She spat and turned her heel. In front of the others he laughed it off as a simple jest. But in stomach a heavy stone was growing. His eight and tenth name day was only two years away. It had been decided on the advise of the court physician that the King would let Arthur be crowned on his name day because of the King’s failing health. His father was old and sick, relying on advisors and Arthur to rule the kingdom. Arthur would take the throne and his father would act as his main advisor. It was because of Gaius’ gentle and long prodding and conversations that the King had agreed. 

Arthur was happy that he knew exactly when his trial was going to take place. But it also made him nervous and inpatient. He was born to be King, but the path to the throne was long, and by the end of it, the druids were waiting.

* * *

 

The coronation day would be a feast of excess and a display of what Camelot had to offer. The preparation for Arthur's eight and tenth name day had taken several weeks. The feast was supposedly going to be even grander than King Uther's. Excitement of the whole ordeal had the entire kingdom in a fury. They said that House Pendragon was destined to become the very essence of Camelot. Without the Pendragon’s, their crops and land would not be as vast. They would not be able to boast of riches or victorious battle. Roars and applause exploded through the courtyard. There were so many men and women in the palace to celebrate their birth; so many in fact that Arthur couldn't name them all. Lords and Ladies of this and that, they told each other. Morgana was good with talking with the nobility, Arthur had barley opened his mouth for the entire day.

Nonetheless, he smiled down at the people. He was dressed in Pendragon red and the sigil of the house was embroidered on his long coat. He stood proud, back straight and chin high. His father would be proud. It was early into the evening, the sun was setting and shining a red, pink glow over the white walls. He looked out from the balcony, the peasants had filled the courtyard, celebrating with the people in the throne hall. People from all across the kingdom had poured through the castle gates since dawn. They danced, drank and ate in his honour and on his behalf. Over their heads red banners had been raised, a golden dragon embroidered in the thick bright crimson fabrics. 

The celebrations began at dawn and continued until dusk, an endless day of drinking and feasting and talking. They gorged themselves on roasted flesh with honey and peppers, drank themselves blind on fermented mare’s milk and Camelot’s fine wines, and spat jests at each other across the fires, their voices harsh and alien in Arthur’s ears. The music was loud and obscure; it rang all throughout the castle in cheery tunes. Arthur took in a deep breath. His name day celebrations was to be held before his coronation. His father had been very firm on that order. 

Arthur turned and walked back into the throne hall again. He filled his wine cup once again from a passing flagon, downing it quickly. Barley tasting it. The throne hall was hazy with laughter and the smell of roasted meat made his stomach churn. Its white walls was also draped with Pendragon banners, reminding Arthur of the inevitable. He knew that his name day celebrations was soon over and the coronation was next. Still, no druids had walked through the Camelot gates. His father had not mentioned how he killed the last dragon, he hadn’t mentioned the druids or the trial at all. Arthur knew better than to ask about something the King hadn’t brought up himself. His friends, Morgana and other knights were smart enough to not talk to Arthur. He had been distant for the last moon. The trial was an exiting fable told for children, Arthur as a child never truly realised that he would have to do one of the druid trials. 

It was the fifth hour into the celebrations and Arthur was getting restless. He was supposed to be seated in the middle of the table, next to Lord Godwyn, King of Gawantand Lord Rodor of Nemeth. Camelot’s closest allies. His father was not present, Arthur shouldn’t feel bitter about it. His father was regarded old when Arthur was first born. He was too sick to be in the company of more than five. Morgana was seated on one of the drinking benches with the bannermen and knights of Nemeth. For once he wished that Morgana was not a bastard so he could have someone to talk in true with. Percival was stationed to guard the east side of the castle, Leon was in the throne hall, but he was sat with the rest of house Dundrad. It would be undiplomatic to sit down by a lower noble house. And Leon sitting by Arthur’s side was out of the question. So Arthur stood by the windows, out of sight, where he could drink as much as he liked. 

Arthur was nursing his fifth cup of wine when the doors bursted open. Arthur felt ice fill his veins when the squire announced as loudly as his voice could carry;

“The druids are coming!”

Arthur was silent. He usually acted big mouthed and talked to his men most of the time. But he watched from one of the large window on to the courtyard completely mute. One of the bannermen had spotted them on the boarder and they were supposed to arrive soon. Arthur was clenching his cup hard in his hand. His sword rested on his hip, a small comfort. Arthur drew in a sharp breath when the gates opened. The massive crowd had since long silenced, the word had spread quickly. Every lord and lady were clambering to the windows to get a peak. The peasants on the ground were watching closely when the first cloak entered. One at the peak walked slowly closer, the crowd parting to make way. Behind the first was two others, behind them walked another two. In procession they walked, they seemed to be floating in the air when the fog flew and parted between them. Maybe twenty or five and twenty druids walked into the centre of the courtyard. The people had tried to distance themselves as much as they could muster. They were pressing against the stone walls. All of them tall and wearing the same dark cloth. They carried no banner, no sigil of allegiance. A silence, cracking in the air had filled up Arthur’s ears. The druids invoked fear, something that demanded everyones attention. Their very presence seemed to be something unworldly. His entire life had been designated by this event. He could not help the sting of curiosity and fascination. Arthur swallowed down the last of his wine.

Arthur starred at the group for several moments before he realised that none of them had moved to get inside the castle. He could feel the anger and confusion boil in his gut. They felt so superior that they would force him out of his own home. He knew that he had to accept whatever the trial was. Arthur looked down at the peasants, the druids standing along with them, like they were equal. He clenched his jaw tight and wretched himself from the window. He ignored the protests that filled the hall when he started to make his way to the doors. Percival and Leon quickly took to his side. The three rushed down the stairs, Arthur walking faster with every step.

_With God and victorious arms_

_With God and victorious arms_

_With God and victorious arms_

He chanted the words in his head, getting louder and louder with every pillar they passed. It was the prayer of the House, but felt like not even his family legacy could help him. The sound of metal moving and growling filled his ears. The nobility was following carefully behind them. No one had seen anyone with magic in Camelot in eight and ten years. No less the druids who’d become more a myth than substance. Hushed whispers followed his every step as he walked out in the cold air. Arthur tried to stand tall, his hand on the pommel of his sword. His heart was up in his throat, making his eyes water. His eyes sweeper over the group. The druids were outnumbered by a hundred men, Arthur had allowed them to enter, yet he felt black tar of fear creeping up his neck. The sun had already set, the only light came from a few torches.   

The whispers had died down, he only heard crickets and the cracking noise of fire. Arthur stood his ground, refusing to engage with them first. Perhaps this was the first test. The trial always differed greatly from each other. The bannermen were shifting in their place, the Pendragon banners wavering in the wind. The druid in the middle, flaked by ten others on either side behind him, took one step forward. Arthur’s hand gripped tighter around his sword, ignoring the gasps. 

“I am Hunith and you are Arthur Pendragon.” Arthur, surprised to hear a woman’s voice, only managed to nod. The druid, the leader of them had not taken off the hood of her cloak. Her face was submerged in deep shadows.

“As your father, and his father before him, you will be put on trial to prove if you are worthy of Camelot.” Her voice was deep and echoed in the filled courtyard. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to prevent him to lash out. The House Pendragon had always been loyal to the people, he was worthy by blood. Arthur took a step back when the druids started to move. Their cloaks swept over the stone as they moved into a circular formation. Arthur was silent, but on his guard, he turned his head slightly to make sure that Leon and Percival were at his side. The druids had their backs turned against them, head down and completely still. 

Arthur had never witnessed magic, nor had anyone else in Camelot. Arthur took another step back when they started to speak. All five and twenty of them spoke in unison. In rumbling low voices that shook the walls surrounding them. He’d never heard anything like it before. It was what he’d imagined the Old Tongue sounded like. It felt like the Old Gods were bearing witness to them, witnessing Arthur’s failure or victory. He could not make out the words, or even guess whatever were saying. But it sounded like they were chanting the same words over and over again, like a prayer. He’d been born a summer child, but the night was cold and still. He felt his skin prickling under his thick cloak. The druids stopped suddenly, and moved away, creating a half circle. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh when he saw what they were surrounding before.

A stone.

A great stone, reaching up to Arthur’s middle. It looked like any stone he would stumble upon while hunting. It had not been in the middle of the courtyard before, but as the legends foretold the druids, all mighty and powerful, he’d not expected them to summon a stone. Arthur looked at Leon, who displayed an equal amount of confusion. He looked back again, the druids were standing a few paces away from the stone. As Arthur did when visiting the royal altar in the cellar. Respecting the power of the unseen. Arthur huffed, disrespected. What kind of challenge would he submit to. A regular stone facing the Crown Prince? A trial for fools. 

Arthur tried to stand still when one of the druids stepped forward. He was taller than the others, his cloak barley moving when he approached the stone. One pale hand peaked out of the cloak, swiftly the druid had produced a sword. Hidden in his cloak was a longsword. It cut through the air as swung it up. It glimmered in the sparse light, the druid curled his fingers around the leather grip hard. Arthur could see his white knuckles. He could see the sharpness of the blade even from afar, it was made from shining steel and the letters of the Old Tongue was forged along the middle. The pommel shone like old gold. The sword seemed to have been passed though the ages, yet Arthur could feel the raw power one would behold if they were the master of it. His own steel felt inadequate next to it.

“This sword bares the name Excalibur.” Arthur drew a sharp breath when he heard the druid’s voice. He had not raised his voice, it was calm like water, sharp as the blade he was holding. It held the same power as the druids had combined. It was the voice of a leader.

“It was begotten in the breath of a dragon. The one who can wield it, shall bring Albion to light.” Arthur nodded to himself. He’d mastered the sword several moons ago. He’d feared that he would have to best a druid. But a fight between two blades was not difficult. He only hoped Camelot steel was strong enough to face dragon steel.

“Only the true ruler of Camelot will carry Excalibur.” The druid turned to face Arthur. His face was covered in fabric, he could not see him, if it was a monster, a man with scars upon his face or maybe no face at all. But Arthur looked down, the power this one had forced him to. Arthur pressed his teeth together, angry with his cowardliness.

“If you, Arthur Pendragon can lift this sword you shall rule Albion and become the Once and Future.” Arthur didn’t believe in fairytales. He didn’t understand the poetry Morgana liked to read. He’d dismissed the Keeper of Knowledge at five and ten. He pushed down the confusion and prepared to be Challenged.

Then the druid stepped up to the stone, swinging it up into the air. The tip of the blade it the stone and bright sparks lit up the courtyard. Arthur gasped and looked away, the scene too bright. When he looked again, the druid had embedded the sword in the stone. Arthur starred. _Impossible_. The stone had given way like it was mere water. The stone was up to the middle of the sword, shining like a beacon. The peasants and nobles were whispering among themselves, Arthur shut his eyes tight. Wanting nothing but silence.

“You are destined to draw the sword out of the stone. This is your trial.” The druid spoke finally. Arthur felt bile coming up this throat. Pulling a sword out from a stone. He would rather have been faced with a dragon. The whispering grew into loud protests. Everyone knew that the trial was impossible. If not a ridiculous jest. Arthur stepped forward. One step at the time he came closer to the stone, the voices died down, all starring into his back. He chanted his House words over and over again, hoping that the New God could hear him. For once in his life he hoped his father was not watching him. The druids stood silent, watching him closely. The one who’d carried the sword first stood the closest to him, his gaze burned into the side of his head. Arthur swallowed deeply, trying to push down the wine that he’d consumed. 

Standing directly in front of the sword he brought up his hands to the grip. Arthur ignored its beauty, perhaps a trick to induce failure. He breathed in slowly.

“With God and victorious arms.” Arthur whispered to himself. The knights, the Lords, Ladies, Morgana, the subjects. All of them watched in suffocating silence. The druids faces were covered, but he felt their stare the strongest. He breathed out harshly and looked at the sword. Then he tensed his arms and pulled. His teeth grinding together and brow furrowed he pulled with all strength he had.

The sword did not move. 

It had become one with the stone. Arthur had not believed it to be possible to move it. He wanted it to be, he wanted to become the King who pulled the sword out of the stone. He was not. He felt tears burning down his cheeks. The entire kingdom had bared witness to his failure. He felt the panic rising, he could become the next Black King, bringing suffering to the land. Arthur pulled away, as if the sword had burned him. His breathing was shallow, alike after a winning fight. Arthur could barley summon the pride to look at the druids.

They were quiet like before. It was different to before. The air was tense, like before a thunder storm. He could not tell if they were disappointed.Their silence was indifferent to his suffering. Arthur tried to raise his chin in defiance. No trial could steal his birthright away from him. 

“The one who manages to pull the sword of the stone, shall rule Camelot.” The woman spoke up. Making everyone jump. 

“You will not be crowned King, Arthur Pendragon.” She stated. Arthur felt his blood boil. He wanted to lash out with his own blade, slash away the cloak and reveal the fraud. 

“No.” The second druid spoke up. The druids turned to face the swordkeeper. Arthur put a tight leash on hope.

“Arthur Pendragon will be King. It is known.” The druid continued. Arthur kept his mouth tightly shut. A glimmer of hope burned like a weak flame.

“He has failed to prove himself.” Hunith said.

“He will prove himself, all in good time.” The druid replied, calm, patient. 

“His chance is over.” It sounded final. Arthur was being sentenced to die. Without the crown, he was nothing.

“He shall learn the ways of the Old and the New. It is known.” He spoke up, with more urgency. Arthur’s heart was pounding so loud, it was a wonder than no one heard it.

“Emrys speaks the truth. We have all seen it.” Another spoke, his voice was lighter than the others, but carried the same poise and pride. The rows of druids revealed nothing.

“I can see the arrogance in his eyes. Nothing can tame a wild dragon.” One druid said on the left. Arthur bristled at the insult. Arthur wondered if the druids ever had argued the result of a trial before.

“You speak untruly, Iseldir. The blood of the dragons are in my veins like my father. I will tame the dragon. Arthur Pendragon will serve Camelot. It is known.” The druid, Emrys stated. His heart pounded against his ribcage, wanting to burst out. The druids seemed to think over Emrys’ words carefully, whispering in hushed voices. It was not the New Tongue. Arthur didn’t tire himself trying to understand. The druids had shut them out completely, only consoling in their own tongue.As the moments passed, terror grew in Arthur, until it was all he could do not to scream. Hunith murmured something and they all seemed to agree to it. She turned to face him again. The night had turned bitter cold, Arthur stood frozen.

“It has been decided. Emrys will remain in Camelot. He will teach and you will learn. When the next trial is imminent, if you cannot lift the sword, you shall parish along with the kingdom. This is the will of the Gods, Arthur Pendragon.” Arthur tried to understand in the furry of confusion. A second chance, unheard of. Then deep, cutting fear embraced him. _He and the kingdom_. He remembered the story of the Black Plague. Arthur knew he had no choice. If he could not be King, he could not be a Pendragon. If he could not be a Pendragon, he was as good as dead.

“Emrys, do you understand what this means?” The woman, for the first time spoke with emotion. It was shaky and deeply saddened. Arthur could feel his own heart stopping at the despair in her voice. The druid nodded once. The woman sighed deeply and after a moment, she regained her posture.

“Then let it be over with.” She said finally. Emrys stepped forward, in front of the stone. Arthur backed away quickly. The druid commanded everyones attention. Emrys took off his hood, bearing his face in front of everyone. His face was gaunt and pale. Hard cheekbones, eyes light as ice. He was young. He was a mere boy. Perhaps a boy six and ten years old. Arthur didn’t know what he’d expected. An old man with deep lines and tired eyes. Something more extraordinary. But he looked like a regular peasant who dared to carry himself like a King. The druid took off his simple cloak, laying it in front of him. He was tall and thin. Clearly having no knowledge of the blade. A thin dark tunic rested on broad shoulders. Arthur buried his questions into the back of his head. Emrys took the knee. Not to swear Oath to Arthur, he was facing the druids. 

“The Gods are gathered. My service to Albion has started. I abandon my life as I knew it. I will have no home to return to. I will have no purpose outside these walls. I am the teacher and disciple of Camelot. I pledge my life to life and honour to the Once and Future King.” When he rose Hunith took the cloak on the ground and walked back into the lines. Emrys did not. Arthur furrowed his brow. He didn’t know exactly what had transpired, but he knew that the druids were experienced a great sorrow.

“If you return without the Promised King, you will be banished, never to see Albion again.” Hunith stated. It was had a resemblance to when the King sentenced someone to meet death. Emyrs nodded once, he looked terribly young and vulnerable at that moment. They druids turned their heel and without any other words, they started to walk to the gates again. Tense silence filled the courtyard. When the bang of the gates closing echoed, everyone turned their eyes to Emyrs. The druid who was left behind. Emrys was looking at the sword for several seconds until he looked at Arthur. Arthur held himself high, eyes steady. Emyrs was slightly hunched over, seemingly having ridden himself of the druid mysteries and pride. He had one eyebrow raised and a small smile played on his lips.

“Kilgharrah was right. The Pendragon pride has created a House of usurpers.” Arthur, drew his face tight up in anger, stepping forward while Emrys stood still. The disrespect and careless way he’d thrown the words at him made his muscles tense and drawing hand clench.

“How dare you, I am the Crown Prince!” He spat, spit flying and his hand right up Emrys' face. It was somehow easier to treat him like the lowborn he was without the army of druids behind him. The cloak was gone and all that was revealed was a stupid, foolish boy.

“You are within the walls of Camelot, you will respect the House!” He continued, too pent up and too angry to care about the audience. His blood had been questioned, his worthiness, his pride and he’d bit his tongue. No more.

Emrys, infuriated him further by smiling brighter. A naive child among men. Arthur breathed harshly, pressing down on his anger, trying to get a hold of himself. Emrys took another step forward. He did not bow his head in respect, due to his height, he could almost look down upon Arthur. No one had ever dared to look down upon a Pendragon.

“The only man I will bend knee to and call King, is the one who wields Excalibur. Do you carry the blade of the dragon?” He smiled and looked at the stone. Arthur refused to look at monument that represented his failure. Instead, he shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. He thought about his House words, summoning his pride to stop him from striking a child. 

“A man with honour would not disrespect anyone of noble blood.” Arthur said calmly, knowing that he had to set an example, he was better than lowering himself to this boy’s standards. Emrys nodded along his words, pondering upon them.

“Blood is cheap, true honour has the highest price.” He commented. Arthur tasted iron when he bit down to silence himself. 

“I think you’ll find that our ways are different from the druids.” He tried diplomatically. Emrys raised his eyebrows in an almost mocking way. Arthur clenched his fists tight. He’d never been so disrespected, not even by Morgana, who felt like she was entitled to treat him like a brother.

“Have you already forgotten? If you do not learn ways of the Old, you will never be King.”

 


End file.
